The Pain of Three
by SallySorrell
Summary: Post-Fall angst and Johnlock. Everyone's favourite things, right? Experience glimpses into their lives three hours, days, weeks, months and years after the Fall. A poetic oneshot, as requested by 10millionpeople. Reviews equal lovely gifs/art in your inbox! Thanks!


_Three hours after the fall_

Sherlock tried to recall _everything _John ever taught him about healing. He stared into a chipped mirror, and scrubbed the blood from his forehead. For the first time in his life, he felt the presence of his heart, as it rattled about in his chest. He assumed it wanted to escape and hated being lied to.

Although he did not sleep, he certainly developed nightmares. He thought of all the things he could've done wrong:

_Too much of the blood-thinner, not enough padding. Wrong speed, wrong angle. No people watching. Did I pray as I fell? I suppose so… 'Please, God, let me live.'_

John became all the things he was most afraid of.

He shouted, and he swore. He returned to their flat – _theirs _– and barred Mrs. Hudson from entering. He was not interested in hugs, or words, or tea or anything. All he did was produce a scarf from the closet – _his _– and inhale it as he writhed on the couch.

When he shut his eyes, he was a soldier. He hated it. Friends toppled around him, and he felt _so _helpless. He heard Sherlock's voice, and saw his face through the tears. _Gone_.

_Three days after the fall_

Sherlock considered plans and disguises. There were three gunmen to be found and silenced. And there was John to look after.

John considered it his responsibility to forbid a funeral. He had no friends, really, nor family. And the press would dilute the sincerity of any words exchanged over Sherlock's body. They knocked constantly on the door at Baker Street, even with the signs Mrs. Hudson put up, the cameras Mycroft provided, and the guards Lestrade posted.

John was provided with Sherlock's mobile phone, salvaged from the hospital rooftop. He never convinced himself to turn it on or read the texts stored there. Every time he saw it, sitting to cover the scratch on _their _desk, Sherlock's voice drifted over him. Most times, this was followed by tears.

_Three weeks after the fall_

Sherlock counted John's visits to Angelo's restaurant. _Twelve_. He always sat at their original table, and gazed blankly through the window. During only two of his trips did he bother eating, but he always stole a matchbook.

Sherlock was, for the first time in his life, _afraid_ that John might see him. When they were together, it was the _only _thing he ever wanted.

John never made it to Baker Street that night.

He limped from Angelo's to the graveyard. Even blindly, he found his way to the proper headstone. Every stolen match was used; held carefully to the marble so John could read it. His eyes were devoid of tears, and the air was smoky. He coughed.

The grass was cold, and the sprinklers always terrified him in the morning. By the time they switched on, he was just beginning to sleep. His dreams were short and fiery, as influenced by the matches. Sherlock would stare at him, until he felt completely _alive_. When he awoke, jumping and gagging on the cold water, this feeling was drained away. He convinced himself he was dead, and would willingly trade places with the body he guarded.

_Three months after the fall_

Sherlock had easily intimidated the gunmen. Two were certainly dead, and one fled the country and his family. Sherlock was not capable of this.

He stood across from their flat one day, and waited for John to enter or exit. The door remained firmly closed, all day and night.

John had to beg for the keys to his former, government-issued rooms. Mycroft helped him win the case, by redefining 'trauma', and causing John to relive all the terrible, poisoned pieces of his life. His routine was crippling.

Most days, he refused to move from the bed. In silent homage to his friend, he drank his coffee with sugar. This was, often, the only thing he consumed. He argued the sugar was a fair replacement for his meals.

He hated sleeping almost as much as he hated waking up. They were woven together in his mind, as he could hardly distinguish the visions from reality.

Every night, he joined Sherlock in falling. They twisted their fingers together, and the soldier worked to sync their steps.

John always awoke before they touched the ground. Sherlock didn't; that was his mistake.

_Three years after the fall_

Even when safely inside their flat, Sherlock never slept. He stood and listened for John's footsteps to subside in the room above him. This was followed, inevitably, by a muffled scream and quick, troubled breathing.

John truly wasn't angry. He'd lost knowledge of that feeling, and most others. He would see Sherlock in the morning. He saw him every morning. Although, now, others encouraged him to believe it. This was no longer a therapy-session, nor a parade for the newspapers.

"John?" Sherlock was cautious in opening the bedroom door.

The soldier sat up in his bed, hopelessly tangled in blankets, and staring into his pillow.

"Are you alright, John?"

"Hardly."

"I'm here. I really am, John."

"I know."

Sherlock, though, was unconvinced by John's wavering voice. He joined him in sitting on the mattress.

Immediately, John scooted away to ensure he was comfortable.

"I'm sorry."

"Doesn't change things."

"That's why I came back."

John refused to meet his eyes as he set down the pillow. He tensed, though, upon feeling Sherlock's cold fingertips dancing against his back. They hovered over his shoulder, where his wound was memorialized with a scar and an amateur display of stitches.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, John."

John was completely unsure of his tears and his hands, as they reached out to Sherlock. His tears were chased away, with help from the pillow-case, but his trembling hands were not.

"Won't stop the nightmares."

Sherlock rubbed his fingers over John's hand, in a way he hoped was comforting.

"I will stay right here."

John didn't expect to fall asleep. He liked confiding in the whole of Sherlock; not just his abandoned scarf. He wanted to stay awake, and count the stripes on Sherlock's dressing-gown, or name every colour that flickered from Sherlock's eyes as they conversed with the light that crept in under the door.

In his dream, they paced on the rooftop. When they stepped from the edge, they floated.

Sherlock's arms, nestled between John's, stopped his shivering, and held him throughout the night.

_And every night after._

* * *

**Author's Note: okay, this was written as a request for 10millionpeople, who wanted post-Fall nightmares and cuddles. I hope I didn't disappoint. To enjoy the original formatting, please find my AO3 (I write as sallysorrell there, too)**

**Thanks for reading!**


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